


Beateatudes

by Nny



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Stealth Crossover, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aziraphale has to own that Heaven is rather like a tea shop.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beateatudes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sejitsu for the 2012 GO_exchange on livejournal.

Heaven is inexplicable and ineffable and that is precisely as it should be, of course. Metaphors and similes cannot possibly resemble it because they rely on human language and human perception, neither of which can have the remotest part to play in the concept. Heaven is Beyond and Above and Outside anything that could possibly be expressed in any sort of language, but if you insist...

Well, if you insist, Aziraphale would have to own that Heaven is rather like a tea shop.

 

*

 

Not his tea shop.

Emphatically and decidedly not his tea shop.

So very much not his tea shop that counter-vaulting and lapel-gripping would be involved in the denial of it, and the likelihood is he would even forget to apologise after.

The nuisance of it is that he has great respect for tea. If he had rather less respect for tea... well. The problem with tea is that it's a transitive noun, if such a thing can possibly exist.

He'd had a book shop of course, and he thinks it suited him better, since it is enough that books exist. Books exist and words reside in them, and it is the message over the medium so it doesn't matter that people read them on a computer screen or an electronic reader or listen to them on those dreadful squeaky ibop things. Books exist everywhere and books do not stale, so it was allowed that he glowered and muttered and drove consumers off to find their medium anywhere that wasn't his.

But tea is a transitive noun and cannot truly exist without someone to enjoy it. The message is the medium, and the enjoyment is the message, and the expressions that tea can put on people's faces -

Someone once said that Hell is other people; really, they were only half right.

 

*

 

**1\. The Establishing Scene**

It had gone through a few iterations. Tranquilitea, Serenitea, the Garden of Teaden (that one had been Crowley's); there had even been five minutes or so when Aziraphale had considered _Eteareal_ before he'd realised quite how often people would mispronounce it. Beateatudes had been the one that had stuck.

It wasn't that he'd grown tired of his bookshop of course, rather that he felt it was wisest to move with the times. Crowley had laughed rather harder than was polite at that. Aziraphale's bookshop was still extant, run by a rather eccentric man of Irish decent, while Aziraphale moved on to something in which he might have rather more contact with people. In the wake of an Apocalypse, he'd found, you became rather fond of them.

His tea shop was just off the slightly less fashionable end of Savile Row, an old tailors shop that was wood panelled yet somehow brighter than it ought to be. It was full of mismatched chairs and china, and decorated with an impossibility of pictures that no one really looked at closely enough to tell that they oughtn't exist. (Certainly not here, in any case. They ought to be in back rooms and basements of museums, in the collections of the obscenely rich and the sweaty-palmed. Aziraphale had been a patron of the arts - if a few meals, a kind word, and the occasional shared bottle of wine could sincerely be called patronage - for many hundreds of years).

Behind the glass-topped counter was a range of electric kettles settled on top of a number of card catalogues, every wooden drawer filled with a different type of tea, and every type of tea contributing to the beautiful dusty scent of the place, to the endless motes that danced through the sunlight. And between the two? The proprietor, of course. As he had been in the beginning, was now, and most likely ever would be.

Of course, he wasn't the only one.

 

**2\. The Attractive Regular**

"I think she likes you," Crowley murmured, just loud enough that Aziraphale had to lean a little closer to hear it, the edge of the glass topped counter biting into the softness of his stomach. Aziraphale went pink to the very tips of his ears.

" _Really_ ," he hissed - without sibilance, which was an impressive feat that usually only Crowley could manage.

Crowley grinned and turned, leaning back against the counter and surveying Aziraphale's domain with an uncomfortably proprietary air. He'd taken to doing that ever since he'd arrived back from America, where he'd been checking in on Warlock (it was easy to imagine the multitude of ways they might have disturbed the poor boy, growing up). Crowley had come back with several pairs of designer sunglasses, a widened vocabulary and the disturbing notion that absolutely anything could be purchased, given the right inducement. He'd also taken to using one of those mobile telephones with the touch sensitive screens far more than was probably healthy, especially something called _tumblr_ and that game with all the birds.

"Really. She's probably a bit young for you, though," he continued, as Miss Parker zimmered slowly out of the door.

"Well that helpfully dismisses everyone on this planet," Aziraphale said, fussily rearranging a stack of cups.

"Hmm," said Crowley. "Almost everyone."

 

**3\. The Remembered Order**

The odd thing was, of course, that Crowley positively _thrived_ in coffee shops. It was amazing what some humans would get up to, given too long a wait for their daily dose of caffeine. Aziraphale was sure he'd spent rather more time in them, before.

"I'll have a grande hazelnut triple shot half-caf semi-skimmed latte topped off with non-dairy creamer," Crowley said as he sailed through the door just after opening.

"I think I understood about five words in that sentence," Aziraphale said, setting one of the kettles to boil.

Crowley - smiled. An odd one, strangely genuine, not the sort that indicated he was just waiting to get in his next bon mot.

"Never change," he said.

"I really don't intend to," Aziraphale answered, fussing with the drawers of tea rather longer than was strictly necessary. His hands moved with assurance, measuring and pouring and stirring, and when he placed a cup of tea in front of Crowley the apples of his cheeks were flushed a gentle pink. From the steam, he'd insist.

"I'm reasonably certain that's not a hazelnut latte," he said, with a normal sort of grin; the kind that didn't make Aziraphale feel as though his insides were bathed in warmth, like the aftermath of a particularly good cup of tea.

"Is that the one with the foamy milk?"

Crowley didn't answer, though. He had taken a thoughtful sip and was now staring at his cup as though it contained all the answers to the universe.

"I - " Aziraphale wasn't used to hearing him sound so uncertain; it was all he could do not to reach forward and pull off Crowley's sunglasses, see the expression in his eyes. "This is - "

"It took me a while to get the blend right," Aziraphale said, folding his napkin into precise quarters.

"From that little tea shop," Crowley said distantly, still staring into his tea. "The South downs, just after - " he waved a casual hand to represent the Antichrist, the Horsemen, and almost practically the end of the world. "I thought you hated me dragging you into hiding like that."

"I hated feeling useless," Aziraphale said. "You - well, you rather grew on me, my dear."

Crowley smiled, and Aziraphale smiled helplessly back, his insides delightfully warm.

 

**4\. Back-Room Shenanigans**

Beateatudes could be found just off the slightly less fashionable end of Savile Row, a delightful old-fashioned sort of place that had experienced a certain amount of popularity for a while. That was before the opening hours became rather more sporadic, of course, just after the owner had moved a worn green sofa into the back room behind the shop. Now only one kettle tended to be boiling, and only two cups were ever really used.

Heaven is inexplicable and ineffable and that is precisely as it should be, of course. Metaphors and similes cannot possibly resemble it because they rely on human language and human perception, neither of which can have the remotest part to play in the concept. Heaven is Beyond and Above and Outside anything that could possibly be expressed in any sort of language, but if you insist...

Well, if you _insist_ , Aziraphale really must own that Heaven is rather like a tea shop.

**Author's Note:**

> IC Tumblr (as briefly referenced in the story) is [here](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/beateatude). :D


End file.
